Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter by Kent Conwell

abrupt descent from my balcony that first night.
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find something to entertain myself for the next couple weeks, huh?”
    Julie laughed. “Yeah. Hey, you and me, we can hang
out together. I don’t got nothing to do unless we’re
working.”
    “Sounds good to me. What about dinner tonight?
Word is that The Red Devil has good shrimp.”

    The young man frowned and tugged his Saints cap
down over his eyes. “We’re working tonight, but what
about coffee in the morning? Rigues’? About ten?”
    “Sounds good to me”
    “Great” He turned on his heel. “See you then”
    I kept walking, keeping my eyes forward just in case
we were being watched, but my brain was spinning in
disbelief. Did Bones indeed have a contact at the licensing board in Austin? He must have, I told myself.
Otherwise, why the two weeks? I shivered. That was
one complication I hadn’t anticipated. His contact
could tell Bones that there was no investigation.
    My clock had just begun running. The time to sit
back and wait had passed. Now, I had to make something happen. I paused at the entrance to Jackson
Square, staring unseeing at the passing traffic as a chilling thought hit me. What if Bones’ contact returned
sooner? What then?
    After leaving Jackson Square, I went back to my hotel where I scribbled a short note to Jimmy LeBlanc,
briefly detailing what had taken place during the day. I
didn’t tell him I planned on tailing Bones, fearful he
would insist I drop my investigation and run me out of
the state.
    I reread the note after I finished it, wondering myself
at the wisdom of what I had in mind.
    Zozette was not at the corner of Decatur and
Toulouse. I peered into the Coral Sea Saloon, but she
was nowhere to be seen, and then I remembered LeBlanc
telling us to move to another corner every couple days.

    Back outside, I continued down Decatur. At the next
corner, St. Louis Street, I spotted her, wearing a different but just as seductive outfit.
    I palmed my message, and just as I approached, she
turned and walked into me. “Hey, why don’t you watch
where you’re going?” she shouted, backing away and
straightening at her hair with one slender hand while at
the same time slipping my message under her wide belt
with the other.
    That evening, I wandered the French Quarter around
Jackson Square, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of
the gang. As far as I knew, the night might be a complete waste.
    Just before ten, from inside a curio shop in the building that housed the Cafe du Monde, I spotted Hummer
and Ziggy coming down North Peters on the east side of
the French Market. After they passed Jackson Square,
they turned down the promenade toward Rigues’.
    Easing down to the corner of the promenade and the
square, I leaned up against the wrought-iron railing and
watched idly as pedestrians, most with drinks in their
hands, stumbled past.
    After a few minutes, I circled the block and on St.
Peter west of Rigues’ I slipped into an ungated corridor
that led to a courtyard behind the Cibaldo and waited.
From the shadows, I watched the restaurant.
    I heard a faint scratching noise behind me. I spun
and, holding my breath, peered into the darkness, my
imagination straining at the implausible. Nothing moved. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, Tony?”
I muttered, grinning sheepishly.

    Ten minutes later, Hummer, Ziggy, and Punky
emerged from the restaurant and headed west on
Toulouse. The crowds had thinned considerably the last
two or three blocks, making it more difficult to keep the
three in sight without being spotted myself.
    From the corner of a two-story stucco, I watched the
three as they crossed Rampart Street and headed along
the north wall of the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. They
paused halfway down the block, looked up and down
the street, then disappeared into a thick, ragged hedge
of shrubs growing next to the whitewashed wall.
    Taking a deep